Poor Hamilton had wished to lead the conversation to Ellen, and now he had succeeded in doing so, he writhed under the questions,—he thought it better not to hear her name mentioned at all, than to be subject to them, and hastily bidding Mrs. Topham see to all those things in her own department, he hurried out to mount his horse, and to gallop like a maniac over the country, as if he could thus escape from the corroding care which followed faster than he could fly. When, in violent exercise alone, did he experience temporary relief from misery. At home every thing breathed of Ellen, and, though it was agonizing to him to see traces of her on all sides, he could not tear himself from the spot; he would pass whole hours in her morning room, looking over her books, turning over the leaves of the blotting book, in which were notes, memorandums, various little matters which belonged to her. He would gaze for several minutes upon any half-bound book, which had “Ellen Hamilton” written in her hand on the outside. Those two words contained for his heart a world of passionate and blasted feelings. The very household accounts were not without a charm in his eyes—for they perpetuated the memory of a time when she was his wife. There is no need to dwell upon the emotions of Ellen when the nurse brought her child. The smiles of the infant and the letter which accompanied it were a momentary balm to her heart. Algernon expressed his conviction that, whatever their own fates might be, he could in no way so effectually secure the ultimate and eternal welfare of their child, as by causing its young mind to be trained to all that was virtuous, under Ellen’s own immediate eye. She could not but be gratified by his opinion of her, and grateful for his kindness. It was about a fortnight from the period of their final separation, when Henry Wareham was one day called out of his office to speak to a gentleman who awaited him in a private apartment. Henry’s heart misgave him. His worst fears were on the point of being realized. It must be Cresford. The room was dark. Henry’s eyes were dizzy with intense anxiety; he thought he did not recognise the face; but it was Cresford’s voice which asked, “Are you Henry Wareham?” “Heavens! Cresford. Is it indeed yourself?” “Where is my wife?” uttered Cresford, in a choked tone of defiance. “Ellen is with her father,” stammered Henry. “Why was she not here to receive her husband?” continued Cresford. “Here is a letter, Cresford, which she desired me to give you, and which will explain all.”